


when i die i want your hands on my eyes

by what_on_io



Series: never give all the heart (for love) [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, Cuddles, Disordered Eating, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Little bit of angst, M/M, Polyamory, Sickfic, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spooning, but if u read the rest theres lots of happy, danse likes reading old books, looking through old photographs together, not v happy sex again, of sorts, vague mentions of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29522238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: “Or maybe you like your men served a lil’ more irradiated,” Hancock snarls. He crowds the soldier, so their chests are pressed together and he can feel the human heat through his shirt. From this angle, the big man has to tilt his head down to look him in the face. “Is that it, soldier?”“Fuck you.”“You want to?”A little ficlet collection that I apparently couldn't stop myself from starting, based in my never give all the heart (for love) universe.
Relationships: John Hancock/Nick Valentine, Paladin Danse/John Hancock (Fallout), Paladin Danse/John Hancock/Nick Valentine, Paladin Danse/Nick Valentine
Series: never give all the heart (for love) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/681470
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	1. old photographs

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo apparently the day before you start a full-time job is the day for starting a ficlet collection! I have no idea how many of these there are going to be, but I couldn't settle on a long-term plot for all the little moments I had going round in my head. I do have a few more ideas to roll out, though I can't promise how speedy I'll be.
> 
> If you have any prompts/requests please leave me a comment or get in touch on tumblr (what-on-io)! I will endeavour to write whatever you bring me! 
> 
> Ratings/tags subject to change. Title from Pablo Neruda.

Goodneighbor in the sun is something else.

It’s the second time Danse has been here during the summer, though the first time he’s counting because the last time his head was so far up his own ass he couldn’t see the sun for the shit. Now, a year later, he’s finally able to drink it all in - the Watch stripping off jackets and hats to walk the perimeter in shirtsleeves, the door to the Third Rail propped open to let Magnolia’s music out, Hancock - naked except for his briefs - sunbathing on their balcony. Rays of sunlight bounce off the metal shelters clustered by the town’s walls, where a few drifters are cooking something up. The scent drifts over on the gentle breeze that’s blowing Danse’s hair out of his eyes, something meaty and sizzling, so good he can almost taste it.

He’s just finished his Watch shift, making his way back to the Old State House with an old submachine gun braced across his front. He and Hancock had agreed he could join the Watch as long as he didn’t overexert himself - because his lover knows about the headaches, of course, and _this ain’t the Brotherhood, Danse_. He likes it, guarding the town, likes watching over Boston from high up on the walls and knowing he’s finally on the right side.

He finds Nick outside the State House, reclining on an old deckchair. He’s still in his jacket - can’t feel the heat or the cold, so it doesn’t bother him either way - but his fedora’s stashed on a fold-out table next to him and his shirt’s untucked over the trousers. His nose is buried in a sheath of papers, and he doesn’t seem to notice when Danse flops down beside him, propping the gun up and swiping away the sweat gathering at his own brow.

“Afternoon,” Nick says without looking up. Ever the detective.

“It is,” Danse says, too hot to conjure much else. He grabs one of the papers Nick’s abandoned and fans himself uselessly with it.

“Thought you promised not to work too hard?” Nick muses, finally lowering the folder enough to look Danse in the eye. “You know I’m not above snitching on you.”

“I’m fine,” Danse says. “Just hot.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” The synth winks. Danse can’t even muster the energy to lean over for a kiss.

“Think John’s got Nuka-Cola in a cooler upstairs, if you can drag yourself inside,” Nick tells him. His eyes flick back to the page.

“What are you reading?” Danse asks. He contemplates stripping out of his shirt, but the few seconds it would take to raise his back off the chair stretch too long ahead of him. He settles for unsticking the material from his skin, wafting it to encourage some cooler air to his bare chest.

“Ah, just some old Institute files Nora pulled for me.”

Danse feels his stomach drop.

“Oh.”

“Nothing bad, don’t worry,” Nick says. He angles the paper so Danse can see.

He was expecting - if he’d had the time to expect anything - reams of data. Spirals of code and strings of numbers that Nick was somehow making sense of, or else scientific notes scribbled in haste. What he sees, instead, is… a picture.

Or, two pictures. Both of a man, one front view and one taken from the side, like an old-fashioned mugshot. He’s bulky, with strong shoulders and a square jaw, sandy brown hair cropped just below his ears. Five o’clock shadow peppers his neck, and his blue eyes are piercing, calculating, looking straight into the camera. The picture’s in technicolour, because of course it is, because this is the Institute, because this is…

Nick Valentine.

Danse might not have worked it out for himself, but the name’s printed in block capitals underneath each picture. SUBJECT 02, the file reads. SYNTHETIC EXPERIMENT 05.

“Whaddya think?” Nick - his Nick - asks. Danse blinks.

“Handsome,” he says, dimly. “But he doesn’t have anything on you.”

“Flatterer.” Nick chuckles “It’s weird, I thought I remembered his face. Always used to expect to see it looking back at me in the mirror. But I’d forgotten the scar. That pimple he could never get rid of. The eyes.”

Sure enough, when Danse squints closer at the page he can just about make out a thin scar on Valentine’s forehead, as though he’d been hit with a blunt instrument. A dimple of a thing, just below his hairline.

“Do you think he signed up for it?” Danse wonders. “For the experiment? Do you think he knew what they were doing?”

“I don’t know,” Nick says. “I feel like I should - I mean, I’m sharing a head with the guy. But I remember Eddie Winter and Jenny Lands and a case Nick had in Quincy in 2068 and what his favourite shirt looked like, but I don’t remember why he wanted his brain copied into a synthetic man.”

Danse resettles so he can draw an arm around Nick’s shoulders, tugging him closer into the crook of his arm. “Maybe he wanted to see his legacy live on,” he suggests, though his leftover Brotherhood principles shudder in revulsion at the notion. “Or he was curious as to what the science could do.”

“Or he was in it for the money.” Nick’s voice is low, sarcastic, but Danse knows him well enough to pick up on the hurt underneath.

“I don’t think so,” Danse tells him, turning to burrow his face into the place where Nick’s silicone makes way to metal and wiring. “Boston detective’s salary? He didn’t need the money. I don’t think anyone they based you off of had a selfish bone in his body.”

It’s apparently what his lover needed to hear, because Nick relaxes fractionally, slumping further into Danse’s embrace. “I wonder if he’d regret it, if he could see me now. What his mind has become. What’s become of the world.”

“ _No_ ,” Danse breathes, heart suddenly thumping too hard in his chest. Is this what Nick frets about, while he’s lying awake in their bed? He inhales deeply, coaxing the scent of him - cigarettes and engine oil and summer - into his nose. “How could he? He’d see what I see. What John sees. Someone strong, who battled the odds to make a place for himself, to right the wrongs of a Commonwealth that doesn’t give a damn if he lived or died. Someone who saves people. Someone who saved _me_ , and Hancock. Someone who’s loved.”

“I love you, too,” Nick says.

“Let’s go upstairs. Be with John,” Danse suggests. Nick nods, allows himself to be drawn to his feet, still a little unsteady in Danse’s hold.

Hancock’s inside when they finally reach his rooms, flopped over the couch with his hat over his face, still undressed. It sends a thrill up Danse’s spine, still, even after all these months, that he can be so unashamedly bare around them.

“My two favourite people,” Hancock says, a Cheshire cat grin stretching across his face. Nick lifts his feet up to deposit himself onto the end of the couch, plops them into his lap and begins massaging his heels.

Danse struggles for a second, trying to work out the best way to broach the subject of Nick’s feelings without embarrassing the man further, but he does it for him.

“Just been reminiscing, looking at pictures of Nick. The old Nick. Handsome devil.”

“Pictures?” Hancock asks, perking up. He sits up a little straighter. “You didn’t tell me there were _pictures._ Why am I only hearing about this now?”

Nick laughs, and it sounds sincere to Danse at least. “Only just brought myself to look at ‘em, darlin’. Here.” He tosses the folder into Hancock’s lap and watches while the ghoul inspects them.

“Hmm,” Hancock says. “Not my type. But then I guess my type’s right here with me, huh? Hard to beat.”

Nick scoffs. “As though you wouldn’t have harboured a crush on him the size of Massachusetts if he’d been the one shacking up in Diamond City,” he says.

“Well,” John ponders, “I did always have a thing for detectives. But I like mine served synthetic.”

This startles laughter out of all three of them, because hell if it isn’t _true._ Danse finally joins them, sinking into the armchair beside the couch and laying a hand on Hancock’s arm, the only place he can reach.

“Y’know, I got pictures somewhere, too,” John says after a minute. “Of my pre-ghoul days. They’re in, uh, an album somewhere. If you wanted to see.” He sounds embarrassed, of all things. It’s been a long time since Danse has heard him shy.

“Of course we want to see, sweetheart,” Nick answers for him.

“I don’t think I can imagine it,” Danse chips in. “I mean, I _can_ \- I can imagine you, cocky as you are now, only with more skin. But I can’t imagine what you might look like, not properly.”

Hancock crosses to his desk, rummages around in one of the drawers. A memory flashes up, of him in a similar state of nakedness, halting Danse in his frantic search for chems. He squashes it down.

The album’s battered, when he produces it, like everything else in the Commonwealth. A leather-bound thing, green, pages curling up at the corners. Hancock sits in the middle of the couch with it in his lap, his lovers on either side of him, and flips open the book.

The first page is a picture of a couple standing before a waterfront, their arms around each other. The woman’s wearing a pink floral dress and has silver barrettes pinning her blonde hair back, grinning widely at the camera. The man’s shorter, stockier, in a battered suit and dress shoes.

“My folks,” Hancock explains, gesturing vaguely to the page. “Right before my dad built our house. Think it was the first time he ever got his hands on a camera.”

He flips the page. Next is a picture of the same couple with a podgy toddler held between them. Dark hair, fists clenched around a pack of gumdrops, scowling. Danse doesn’t have to ask to know this is Hancock’s brother.

“Still a grumpy little shit, even then,” John mutters, turning over before anyone can comment. Danse squeezes his shoulder, the lightest pressure, turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the ridged skin there.

“Me,” John whispers, and Danse looks back at the photo album. This time a slightly older McDonough is scowling down at a baby sleeping in a crib - John.

“Cute,” Nick tells him.

Over the course of the next few pages, both children mature - John into a mischievous kid, nose scrunched at the camera, scowling back at his brother. The parents fade gently into old age. McDonough gets podgier, and greyer, and meaner.

And then there’s John, an adult, leaning against a railing in Diamond City. Hand on a cocked hip. He looks to be twenty-five or so, chin jutted, eyes narrowed, grinning lazily.

He looks so much like the John Danse knows that it takes his breath away. Except the eyes, which are a bright blue to rival Nick Valentine’s, and the hair, which is…

“Blonde,” Danse whispers. The hair’s… something. The John in the photograph has secured most of it in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, but a few wavy locks have escaped to frame his face. It’s curly. Pretty.

“Remember findin’ that hair all over my agency every time you crashed upstairs,” Nick adds. “Clogging up the tub. Clumps on the pillows. Remember you trying to blame Ellie, even though it was all blonde.”

Hancock laughs, twisting in his seat to kiss Nick. Danse reaches out a hand to trail an index finger across the photograph, creased with age.

“You can say it,” Hancock says, quietly. When Danse glances up the ghoul’s eyes are on him. “I was a heartbreaker. A helluva lot more attractive back then.”

He still gets like this, sometimes, although the moments are becoming fewer and further between. Usually Danse and Nick kiss them away, sandwich Hancock between their bodies until the pressure’s enough to chase the doubts away. Now there’s still a lilt to his voice, a smirk on his face. They can still pull him back from the brink.

“I’d definitely recognise you,” Danse says lightly. “If I went back in time. Although I prefer the you I already know. Grizzled. Devilish rogue.”

“Tarnished by time and radiation,” Hancock puts in, but he’s smiling. Lets Danse tilt his head - so gently - up to press their lips together.

“Never,” he whispers against the ghoul’s mouth. “I don’t know where I’d be now, if I’d never met you. Both of you. You saved me.”

“We saved each other,” Hancock whispers, and Danse knows he means it. Can picture him, pieced together from what the two of them have told him, bereft in the State House after Danse shipped out to the Prydwen. His face, crumpled, after Danse rejected him in Sanctuary. His confidence, shaky at first, growing with gentle touches and soothing kisses and rough sex. How they’d rejoiced after rescuing Nick. How it feels like they can all finally breathe, now, together.

Danse slips his arm around Hancock’s back, tangles his fingers with Nick’s.

"I don't have any pictures from... before. No proof of what was real and what the Railroad gave me. I wish I had one of Cutler, too," Danse says. "I don't think I have any photographs of myself, actually."

"Reckon we should fix that, sweetheart. Anyone got a working camera?" Valentine asks after a beat. “We should update the album, with all three of us.”

They find one, eventually, wrangled from Ham of all people. It’s the fancy kind, with a timer on, so they can set it on the dresser and gather up together, John in the middle where he belongs. The flash blinds Danse momentarily.

When the picture develops, in a darkroom Ham has inexplicably set up - the man’s a hobbyist, apparently - they’re wearing matching grins, tangled together, where they belong.


	2. first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Or maybe you like your men served a lil’ more irradiated,” Hancock snarls. He crowds the soldier, so their chests are pressed together and he can feel the human heat through his shirt. From this angle, the big man has to tilt his head down to look him in the face. “Is that it, soldier?”_
> 
> _“Fuck you.”_
> 
> _“You want to?”_
> 
> Hancock and Danse's first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from urbanqhoul on tumblr - Danse and Hancock's first time! I hope I did it justice.
> 
> As usual, prompt me in the comments or send me a message on tumblr (what-on-io)!

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five of the metal bastards shacking up on the perimeter of his town, in those hulking great suits that shake the ground with every step.

And that’s just how many Hancock has counted.

They arrived yesterday, a whole platoon of them, stopping just outside Goodneighbor’s gates with their laser rifles and tin armour and those stupid fucking helmets. Demanded to see ‘the freak in charge’ and stood there trying their best to look menacing until Hancock deigned to come down from his rooms. He greeted them with a sneer, letting the knife he’d stashed at his hip glint in the low sunlight, shotgun tossed uncaringly across his back.

“We have your town surrounded, freak,” the leader spat. Hancock squinted a little closer at him. Tall, strong, even accounting for the power armour. Dark hair slicked back with gel. A scar at his brow. Pretty, in another world. In another life.

“Oh yeah? Not for long, ya don’t,” Hancock said. Soundlessly, he gestured to the few members of the Watch who’d clustered around. He knew KL-E-0 had already whisked off to reprogram the turrets, knew Daisy had ushered the drifters who couldn’t fight down into the Third Rail. And he and the Watch have always been able to hold their own.

“It’ll go easier for you if you surrender. The Brotherhood of Steel wants to requisition the land for an outpost. You’ll be doing the Commonwealth a service.”

So that’s who they were. Brotherhood. Hancock’d heard of ‘em, of course. Nothing but a fairy tale in this part of the ‘Wealth, a big benevolent force come to save the Wasteland from its sins, ripping up technology in its path. Mutant haters. Synth haters.

Ghoul haters.

Made him smile even bigger knowing what this metal fuck must be thinking to look at him, a ghoul mayor in charge of a booming town.

“I’ll do ya a service alright, buddy,” Hancock said. “Give ya one last chance to turn the fuck around before we open fire.”

“We haven’t offered violence,” the big man replied. Wanted to get Hancock on a technicality, did he? Ain’t like there was anything close to justice in the Commonwealth anymore, not since the last of the Minutemen packed up, but still. It wouldn’t stand Goodneighbor in very good stead if they became known for opening fire on any unwitting civilian taking shelter outside the town limits.

“We’ll wait,” Hancock said. “You or your goons cross into my town and start throwing your weight around, you die. Simple as that.”

“I’d like to see you try, ghoul.”

A day later and there are Brotherhood soldiers holding court down in his bar. Raising a toast to _another successful tour_ , tipping Charlie big, raising a lighter flame to Magnolia’s slower songs. None of them mention the _mutant scourge_ or call him a freak to his face, not while they’re inside the gates. Once they leave, he strongly suspects it’s a different story.

Hancock contemplates shooting a couple of ‘em in the back, as a warning. Taking pot shots from his balcony. Can’t look like he’s losing his grip over the town, can’t risk a repeat of Vic’s reign, and it’s important people feel safe here. But the big man’s right - unless the Brotherhood offer overt violence, it’ll reflect badly on Goodneighbor.

Besides, half the drifters seem to like ‘em.

Hancock sighs. Scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a dilemma, all right.

Fahrenheit tries to explain it in one of her chess metaphors, but he’s all out of Mentats and the words make his head hurt.

“You have to play the long game,” she says eventually, when he glances up at her from his terminal. “Wait for them to slip up - one of them is bound to say something we can construe as threatening. Then, bam, no more Brotherhood. Although, to be honest, the economy is booming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. From the window in his quarters he can just about see the big one, the leader, striding across the square with his laser rifle braced high, dark hair ruffling in the breeze. Never lets his guard down, this one. Hancock’s never caught him drinking or joking or taking a smoke break. Guy barely even seems to sleep, just paces with his gun clenched and occasionally squats down to tweak his armour or the giant pole up his ass.

Hancock would be lying if he said the thought of helping hadn’t crossed his mind.

Fahrenheit leaves him to his musing, eventually, and Hancock passes the rest of the day in a haze of Jet fumes and cigarette smoke. He’s thinking about stumbling down to the Third Rail for some company when he hears heavy footsteps on the spiral stairs, and cranes his neck to see who it is.

“Ghoul.”

Three guesses. He only needs one.

“Toy soldier,” Hancock greets, tipping his tricorn at the Brotherhood leader.

“I’ve come to discuss our future.” He’s out of his armour, Hancock notes. Probably doesn’t fit up the stairs or in the low ceilings of the State House. The outfit underneath’s a one-piece, bright orange, and it clings to his body like a second skin, showing off an impressive musculature that Hancock imagines would feel firm beneath his questing fingers.

He swallows the thought.

“ _Ours_?”

“The Brotherhood’s. In relation to your… settlement.” The soldier hovers in Hancock’s periphery, looking a second away from fidgeting. Hancock would pay good caps to see that. “I have a proposal, if you’d care to hear it.”

Oh, he would.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Hancock asks, gesturing lazily to the couch. The soldier’s lip curls when he looks at the gently rotting material, but he deigns to perch on the edge of a cushion regardless. Hancock joins him on the opposite couch, legs tossed over the arm and head tipped back into the cushions. “All right. Give me your best offer.”

“We’re prepared to assist in rehoming your… residents. The human ones,” the big guy says. “We have existing relations with a few farms across the Commonwealth and in the Capital Wasteland; we’d be happy to set them up.”

Thing is, he sounds so sincere, like he really believes he’s offering a deal too good to refuse.

“Yeah? And what about the others, then? The _freaks_ ,” Hancock hisses. “Think you’ll have to sweeten the deal a little, soldier.”

His dark eyebrows raise, just a little. He hasn’t called the bluff just yet.

“What they deserve is eradication. We’re prepared to spare their lives, if you’ll grant us this land peacefully.”

“What makes Goodneighbor so special, anyway?” Hancock asks. He’s been pondering this particular brainteaser for the past two days, can’t quite figure it out. So he’s curious, sue him.

The Brotherhood bastard sighs. “We’ve detected strange energy signals coming out of Cambridge. We suspect those signals are rooted in Institute technology - and so an undeniable threat to the entire Commonwealth, if not the entirety of America. Your little cesspit is conveniently located, and already established enough to provide comfortable accommodation and access to quasi-scientific resources.”

Hancock pretends to mull that over. The big guy’s eyes follow his movements when he reaches forward to pick up another tin of Mentats, and he doesn’t miss the flinch when his fingers curl around the box, an inch too close for comfort.

“We’d be doing you a favour,” the guy reiterates. “This hovel practically promotes chem addiction and prostitution and- and _decay_.”

“You said,” Hancock says cheerfully. He opens his mouth wide to pop a pill.

The soldier’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Interesting.

“Y’know, your men are getting pretty comfortable in my little den of iniquity,” he points out. Crunches down on the Mentat and finds it grape flavoured.

“It’s been a difficult tour.” He sounds stiff, now, words spat out from between gritted teeth.

When Hancock looks back at him he finds he’s stiff somewhere else, too.

“And you?”

“The sooner we ship out to the Prydwen the better, in my opinion,” the soldier says. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap. “But I need to ensure your band of freaks hand the settlement over before that happens.”

“So you’re not having fun, then?” Hancock lowers his voice to a purr, rises to stand in one fluid, graceful motion that puts him an inch away from the soldier’s knees. “Not enjoying a bit of R&R? Never seen you in the Third Rail with the rest of your pals. So what do you do with your time, huh? Can’t spend all of it polishing your power armour. Gotta be some downtime in there somewhere.”

Is he imagining the glint in those dark eyes? Is he reading these signals wrong? It’s been a long time, since he’d done this with someone who hated him. He isn’t sure he wants to tumble backwards that far. But, fuck, there’s a bead of sweat at the soldier’s brow and his neatly trimmed nails are digging little crescent moons into his palms.

“None of your business,” the soldier gasps.

And it is a fucking gasp. Hancock has him.

“Tell me, soldier. You retreat back to your tent at night and ease your stress away with a hand in your pants, huh? Or do you get someone else to do it for ya? One of your metal cronies, maybe? Maybe that knight, the one with the-“

“Don’t you dare even _imply_ -“

“Hit a nerve there, did I?”

The big man stands up, so suddenly it forces Hancock to stumble a step backwards. “ _Fuck_ you, ghoul. That’s _blasphemy_. I would never-“

“Or maybe you like your men served a lil’ more irradiated,” Hancock snarls. He crowds the soldier, so their chests are pressed together and he can feel the human heat through his shirt. From this angle, the big man has to tilt his head down to look him in the face. “Is that it, soldier?”

“Fuck you.”

“You want to?”

Hancock’s not entirely sure what he expects, but he still manages to be surprised when the soldier shoves him backwards, _hard_.

“Get away from me, mutant scum,” he growls without moving away. Hancock lets the tension bleed out of his posture until he’s lounging, one arm tossed over the back of the sofa, tricorn tipped at an angle.

It feels less like a game now and more like a dare. Like his blood will ignite in his veins unless he gets his hands on this man, right fucking now. Still. He waits for the soldier to come to him.

Hancock’s past chasing men who look at him like this.

“Your choice.” He shrugs. “But I’m up for it if you are.”

Somehow that’s enough. The big guy crowds him again, hauls him up off the couch cushions by his collar. Hancock wants to protest about the history sewn in every stitch but holds his tongue - a leftover effect of the Mentats, probably. That and the fact that the soldier’s hold cutting off half his air.

He’s marched over to the bed and dumped unceremoniously on the dingy mattress. He can hear the soldier stripping off his flight suit, the sound of fabric hitting the floor, and then there’s a larger body over his, pressing him into the mattress, surrounding him with a scent of engine oil and some kinda fancy cologne.

For a minute neither of them move, like they can’t quite believe what’s happening. Hancock’s only roused when the soldier slips back a little, enough to loosen the belt at his waist and tug his pants down, baring his ass to the chilly State Room air.

“Don’t think I’m doing this because I want to, ghoul,” he spits. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of you.”

“Don’t worry,” Hancock says easily. “I’ll spare ya.”

This is enough, apparently, for a big hand to wrap around his throat. Not squeezing, not yet, but tight enough that there’s a little less oxygen reaching his lungs. Hancock revels in it, tips his head back into the touch - which is apparently the wrong move, because the fingers twitch away and return to his ass. The soldier spits in his palm and then there are two fingers probing his entrance, cold and wet but not quite wet enough.

Hancock bears it. Grunts a little with the burn and stretch but doesn’t ask him to go easier. A breathy moan escapes him without his express permission, and it turns out that was what he needed all along - the hand returns to his throat, index finger and thumb applying pressure. Hancock chokes on his next moan.

He wriggles around a bit, trying to shrug out of his coat and shirt, but he’s pinned. The big guy eases up a little when he realises Hancock’s resisting, lets him up just long enough to get his arms out of the frock coat and toss it over a chair, but as soon as Hancock’s fingers go to the fastenings of his shirt, his wrists are seized and pinned back against the mattress.

Guess the shirt’s staying on.

“ _Ow_ ,” Hancock says, with feeling, as a third finger joins the others in his ass. He hasn’t done this in a while, not like this, and it aches in all the right places. Those huge fingers stretch him out, a little gentler, for now, and then the soldier’s spitting again to slick himself up and _then-_

It hurts, but it hurts _good_. Maybe he should’ve rummaged for the lube, or at least some Med-X, and he’s gonna be sore as hell in the morning, but for now the soldier’s huge fucking cock is filling him up, giving him more inches than he thought he could take, and on the second thrust it hits that spot inside him and Hancock’s gone, blissed out, head over fucking heels.

The soldier bottoms out a third time and rests a moment. It feels like time itself has frozen, like Hancock could extract himself from where they’re attached and walk around the room to examine the strong muscles of a Brotherhood back, skim molten fingers down those pale shoulders, and return here to finish the fucking.

As it is, he lets the soldier tighten his grip around his throat again. Rocks back onto his cock, meets him thrust for thrust, and when the guy hisses at him to _shut the fuck up, freak, someone will hear_ , Hancock can barely get his laugh out.

It’s loud enough, though, apparently, for a set of teeth to clamp into the sparse flesh at his collarbone, sinking deep. He cries out, then, although he’s pretty certain the aim was the opposite, but the pain and pleasure points of teeth and cock blur into one, blanking out his vision. This is better than a high, better than the chem that turned him ghoul, better than any fuck he’s ever had.

It’s a testament to the quality of the fuck that Hancock comes first, and he’s glad of it, because he ain’t sure he’d be allowed to finish at all otherwise. Enough jabs at his prostate, right _fucking there_ , and one spit-slick hand around his dick on the final thrust and he’s coming, messily, all over the bed and the tails of his shirt and the pillow he has to sleep on tonight.

The soldier follows not long after, stifling the sound of his release with the back of a hand. When he moves it away there are bite marks like the ones imprinted into Hancock’s collarbone in the pale flesh there.

He pulls away too fast, slipping from Hancock’s body and leaving him bereft. Hancock flips on his back, catching sight of his spent cock, his tousled hair, the circles of pink in his cheeks. If there’s one thing he regrets, it’s not catching sight of the soldier’s dick in all its glory, while he was pressed so close to the mattress he couldn’t breathe.

They lie together, a foot apart, panting in tandem. Eventually, Hancock raises his head enough to say, “Didn’t even get your name.”

This startles a laugh out of him, the first one Hancock’s ever heard. “It’s Danse. _Paladin_ Danse, to you.”

“Paladin,” Hancock rolls the word around on his tongue, tasting it. Ain’t sure he likes it. “We makin’ this a regular thing, then?”

“Not on your life, freak,” Danse spits.

“I think, though, next time, you can have me against a wall,” Hancock continues, undeterred. “Hard as ya like. Get some o’ that tension outta ya.”

The paladin gets up off the bed, starts peeling the flight suit back over that pale expanse of skin. It’s a shame - he looks good without it. Hancock maps the whole of him, just in case he doesn’t get to have this a second time.

Not that he gives a shit, or anything.

“Think over what I offered you, ghoul,” Danse says as he does up the zipper. He shoves his feet back into his boots, drags a hand through his untidy hair to slick it back into place. He looks like he wants something to wipe himself down with, to get rid of the feel of ghoul flesh.

There’s no fanfare when he leaves. He doesn’t look back. Just footsteps, a slamming door, and Hancock’s lonely breaths, exhaled with no-one to hear.


	3. family reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick’s got the fancy plates out._
> 
> _It’s cute, Hancock thinks, kicking his legs from where he’s perched on the table. If he said that to Nick he’d probably get a thump, but that don’t make it any less true. Nick’s found his cleanest china and sourced lemonade from that bot in Covenant and even allowed Hancock to bring more pre-war pie over for dessert._
> 
> _All because his brother’s coming over._
> 
> DiMA visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back on my bullshit with the scene changes!!!! This one totally ran away with me. And we've finally hit more than 100,000 words for this series, which is INSANE. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far and is for some inexplicable reason still reading! <3 If you want to prompt me/request a ficlet, leave me a comment or hmu on tumblr (what-on-io)!

Nick’s got the fancy plates out.

It’s cute, Hancock thinks, kicking his legs from where he’s perched on the table. If he said that to Nick he’d probably get a thump, but that don’t make it any less true. Nick’s found his cleanest china and sourced lemonade from that bot in Covenant and even allowed Hancock to bring more pre-war pie over for dessert.

All because his brother’s coming over.

It had been a rushed affair, this whole thing, arranged through sporadic letters sent by courier, and then through lengthier holotapes delivered right to the agency. Hancock was there, most of the time, while Nick listened to them, synthetic brow furrowed. John had massaged the stress from his shoulders and reminded his lover that neither of them gave a shit what DiMA thought, about the state of the china or anything else.

Now Hancock watches Nick fret, coat and hat discarded. If he were human he’d be running anxious fingers through his hair. As it is, he settles for wringing his silicone hands and glancing at the door every few seconds, as though the other synth is going to burst through all guns blazing.

They’re doing this in Diamond City rather than Goodneighbor, where they spend most of their time, because it’s familiar territory for Nick. Besides, it ain’t actually that bad anymore, not since Piper took over as mayor and started letting ghouls in again. A few of the drifters from Diamond City have already moved back, and Hancock’s sure more will follow. He’s happy for them. Really. Knows the Goodneighbor lifestyle isn’t for everyone.

‘Sides, he always did miss the noodles.

“What time is it?” Nick asks for the fourth time in about as many minutes. Hancock checks the clock.

“Almost five.”

DiMA’s boat would have docked a few hours ago. Danse was meeting him at the shore and escorting him over, making sure he didn’t get eaten by muties on the way.

Hancock scoots a little closer to Nick so he can rest his head on his boyfriend’s folded arms. Nick’s vibrating gently, his internal fans working overtime, little curls of steam emitted from the small hole in his neck he insisted they leave open ‘for access’.

“You need to relax, sunshine,” Hancock warns, shuffling around so he can massage his rigid shoulders. There’s tension coiled in every limb, and for a second Nick feels so human under his ministrations that Hancock almost forgets he’s not.

“Easy for you to say,” Nick grumbles. “Trouble is, I don’t even like the guy. I think he’s a smarmy so and so. But it just feels like there’s this… pressure, ya know? To get this right. To make amends, because he’s as close as I’ve got to family.”

“Not true,” John whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of Nick’s head. “Your family’s right here.”

The synth chuckles. “I know,” he says. “Just…”

“I get ya.” And he does. After all, what would he give for the chance to make amends with his own brother, before he was replaced by the Institute? He’d saw off a limb for the chance to find out how much of McDonough’s bluster was real and how much was programmed, to know if his rejection had really been _his_ or _theirs_. “This is important to you. And we’ll make sure it’s good, okay? But if it isn’t, and things go south, well… you both got plenty of time.”

Nick nods, and Hancock feels rather than sees the motion. He’s relaxed a little under his ministrations, head lolling forward, and when the rustle of the key in the lock comes they’re both ready for it.

Danse enters first, the hydraulic hiss of his power armour preceding his entrance. He barely fits through the door, all kitted out as he is, but it’s raining out and this is his best set, gifted from Nora as a shitty way of making amends. His old armour, with the scratched out Brotherhood emblems, has been gifted to Shaun as a new pet tinkering project.

Danse exits the armour by the door, tugs the helmet off his head and shakes out his damp hair. He’s soaked through, despite all the metal - his dark blue t-shirt clings to his skin, and the jeans are dripping with water. Nick hands him a towel without comment.

DiMA’s just like Hancock remembered him, only he’s removed a few of his head attachments and gathered his trailing wires into a sort of ponytail. He’s deigned to put on clothes for the journey - some kind of loose-fitting grey robe with holes for his shoulder doohickeys. He smiles at them and it can only be called _benevolent_ , like a god smiling on his creations. Hancock wonders how he was ever jealous of the guy; as though Nick would ever abandon his life here to be looked at like that, with a blend of pity and amusement at how the little people run things.

And behind him, wrangling a suitcase that could probably fit DiMA inside and then some, is his henchman, or assistant, or boyfriend. Faraday, Hancock thinks belatedly.

“Didn’t know you were bringing someone,” Nick says in lieu of a greeting, getting to his feet to - to shake hands with his brother, apparently. It’s a little weird. Hancock imagines shaking hands with McDonough and suppresses a shudder at the image.

John goes to peck Danse on the cheek while they’re busy saying hello, and helps drag the suitcase into a corner of the agency. Good thing Ellie’s made herself scarce for the weekend, probably, else they might not all fit into the cramped space.

“I hope it isn’t an imposition,” DiMA’s saying, easing himself into a chair, mindful of his protruding parts. “Faraday helps collate my memory banks, and I didn’t want to be left short.”

“Of course,” Nick says jovially. “Well, I think we got enough food in, anyway. John went a little overboard on the pie.”

“Oh, really, you needn’t trouble yourself-“ Faraday chips in, but Nick’s not having it.

“Really, it’s no trouble. You came all this way. And I’m sure we can rustle up a place for you to sleep, if you…”

“Oh, we don’t…” Faraday begins, but DiMA cuts him off.

“We can share, Nick,” he says. “Though I did spot a lovely looking inn across town - if you’re struggling for room, I’m sure we can find ample beds there.”

First time Hancock’s ever heard anyone call the Dugout _lovely_ , but whaddya know. Strangers to the Commonwealth and all.

“I thought we’d have dinner first, and then you can get settled in,” Nick says. The table’s already set for four, and Danse hastily reaches for extra crockery and a chair. “You do eat some, right? I can, a bit.”

“I’m sure I can sample a few things,” DiMA says, relentlessly polite. Hancock exchanges a look with Danse, who shrugs minutely.

They sit down to the food - noodles from Takahashi’s, with seasoned brahmin for extra flavour. Hancock’s making an effort - he hasn’t taken any chems today, to work up an appetite - and Danse is tucking in with what he suspects is half feigned relish, and even Nick’s trying his hardest, curling noodle tails around his fork and putting at least a few of them in his mouth.

DiMA, meanwhile, stares down at his bowl. He looks… interested, is the best word John has for it. As though the noodles are a rare delicacy not witnessed often in Far Harbor, though Hancock knows for a fact they were served in the Last Plank.

Faraday, too, looks bemused by the food. And now Nick’s getting twitchy, the strange tension making everything grey and awkward, and John can’t stand it.

“Something up?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing. It’s delicious,” Faraday insists.

“I might even believe you, if you’d actually eaten any,” Hancock retorts. “If you already ate, you coulda said so.”

“It’s not that,” DiMA says, unruffled as ever. “We just don’t tend to eat, at home.”

“Like… at all?” That’s weird. Okay, Nick doesn’t eat _much_ , but he likes strong flavours, and he’ll always steal a bite of whatever Danse or Hancock’s eating, if it’s hot and smells good enough. And he’d been practically orgasmic at that pie. He just has to make sure to clean his innards thoroughly every month or so, and with John’s help it’s hardly even a chore.

And Faraday - if he’s a synth, he’s a Gen-3. And Danse definitely gets hungry - Hancock’s heard his stomach rumble, when he was lying on top of him with their tongues tangled together, all thoughts of food forgotten. If Danse doesn’t eat, he gets…

Does he, though? Does he feel faint, or get stomach pains? John thinks so. He’s seen him, exhausted after a mission, after too long neglecting his own needs in favour of the common goal.

“You don’t get hungry?” Danse is asking the question for him, then, brow furrowed in confusion. It’s important for him, this, finding out more about his origins and what it means to be a synth after believing Brotherhood bluster for so long. Hancock reaches to squeeze his hand under the table.

“I thought I did, at first,” Faraday replies. “But DiMA showed me that it was just my programming. I’m less dependent on human resources, now. Once you suppress the pains for long enough, you… I suppose the word would be transcend over your baser needs. It’s one of my favourite things about being a synth, the ability to reject all the things that tie humans down, like food and sleep.”

“Oh,” Danse responds, faintly.

“It really is a good life we’ve forged for ourselves, out in Acadia,” DiMA chimes in. The fork is abandoned at the side of his plate now, all pretence of sharing a meal gone. “You should think about joining us. You too, Nick.”

Hancock doesn’t bother protesting, just leans a little further back in his chair, tipping the front legs off the ground. He folds his hands over his stomach, following the synths’ lead.

He’s used to being the odd one out, he tells himself.

“I’m very happy here,” Danse says, and shovels more noodles into his mouth while studiously looking away from John. Nick’s hand is warm on his knee under the table, a solid weight.

“Well. We’ll get out of your hair for the night,” DiMA says after an uncomfortably silent moment. He begins gathering himself, arranging his wires to trail behind him while Faraday takes up their suitcase again. “You know where to find us, Nick. Shall we meet at the market in the morning? I’m assured there is an abundance of sights to see around Boston, though I’m sure we won’t have time to see them all.”

Hancock thinks of the room they’ve prepared upstairs, with an extra mattress laid out on the floor for he and Nick to share while DiMA takes the bed. Danse was planning to sleep downstairs on the couch, not wanting to crowd the room, but none of them say anything when the other two synths shuffle for the door and the Dugout.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Nick lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to startle Hancock and Danse. He sinks back into a chair, takes his hat off and lets his head fall into his hands.

“That was terrible,” he mutters. Danse moves over to squeeze the back of his neck, rubbing gentle patterns between his shoulder blades.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Hancock tries. “Least they left.”

Nick chuckles without much humour, shifting to allow Danse better access with his skilled thumbs. “Ah, that’s the spot, doll.” A groan of pleasure, followed by one of something distinctly worse. “Why did we invite him for a whole weekend, again?”

* * *

The next day dawns bright and too early for Hancock’s liking. And Nick’s, too, apparently, because the synth is grumpy while Hancock slurps lukewarm coffee and grumpy while he shakes his Jet canister to get the dregs and grumpy while all three of them march down to the market to meet DiMA.

DiMA and Faraday are already waiting, engaged in a stiff debate with Myrna, who looks visibly repulsed. Nick goes to steer them both away, a lot more diplomatically than Hancock would have managed.

“I’m in awe of you, Nick,” DiMA says in that soft voice of his. “I’m not sure how you’ve borne it this long, in the face of such prejudice.”

“Ah, Myrna’s not so bad once she gets used to you,” Nick tells him. “Just try not to rile her.” Ignoring his brother’s frown, he forges ahead. “Anyway, thought you wanted to go sightseein’? Might as well start with the best and brightest of Diamond City. You’ve already sampled the noodles, so there ain’t many more highlights, but I’m sure we can rustle something up.”

“I’ve heard a lot about a mysterious Wall,” DiMA says. “Apparently it has some kind of protective quality?”

Turns out the Wall doesn’t look so impressive bathed in grey-green morning light, even with Abbot applying another fresh coat of paint. DiMA squints at it as though the face of a deity might emerge.

“It certainly is a wall,” Faraday says, pleasantly.

“Whole place used to be a baseball stadium,” Nick explains. “Fenway Park. ‘Course, Moe’s got a lot more stories where that’s concerned, if you’re naive enough.”

“It’s an impressive settlement,” DiMA comments, though it sounds like a lie. Hancock thinks back to the steel walls of Acadia, how the thick fog had hung over everything like a cloak and how monsters lurked in the trees, and suddenly Diamond City doesn’t seem so bad after all.

“Well, we got pure water, high walls and enough security to put down a platoon of Gunners, so I don’t think we’re doing too badly,” Nick grits out. “Anyway, if you want a flavour of the local history, Boston’s got plenty. How about we hit the Freedom Trail?”

* * *

DiMA and Faraday are slightly more impressed by the Massachusetts State House, and the Old Corner Bookshop gets a raised eyebrow and a sage nod. Nick steers them well clear of Railroad HQ, and the five of them wind up at Swan’s Pond - safe as it’s gonna get after Nora downed the behemoth - listening to the Protectron’s spiel and watching clouds gather overhead.

“Tour wouldn’t be complete without a little trip to Goodneighbor,” Hancock says when it’s over, waggling his brow. “Food might not be your bag, but we got plenty of chems with your names on.”

“Oh, we don’t partake-“ Faraday begins, as though Hancock’s words hadn’t been dripping with sarcasm.

“Chems are a purely human vice,” DiMA interrupts. “Our research has proved their effect on synths to be nothing more than a faint placebo effect. But we’d love to see your town, Mayor Hancock.” He waves one arm ahead of himself to gesture for John to take the lead. He does, grudgingly, shotgun grasped loosely in one hand, thinking that Danse’s pain relief from Med-X and his sigh of delight from a shared Jet canister wasn’t even close to a fucking _placebo effect_. It’s like Nick’s brother can’t hear the bullshit he’s spouting.

They make it there unscathed, after having to pick off nothing more than a pack of feral dogs. DiMA makes all the right noises when faced with the Old State House, but his interest is genuinely piqued by the Memory Den - he and Faraday duck inside for a conversation with Irma, leaving the three of them alone and grateful for it.

“Shall we stay the night?” Nick suggests. “Get them a room at the Rexford?”

“A real magical mystery tour,” Hancock mumbles. “What the hell, sure.”

They take their guests to the Third Rail that night for drinks and entertainment. Well, drinks for Hancock and Nick. Danse only shakes his head when Charlie offers to whip him up a whiskey on the rocks, and DiMA and Faraday refuse to so much as approach the bar. But Hancock’s yet to meet anyone who isn’t immediately charmed by Magnolia, and when they find out she’s a synth they’re sold, crowding the stage and craning their necks to watch her sing.

“Acadia is a place for synths to nurture their passions,” Hancock hears DiMA telling her when she takes a cigarette break. “You could bring your talents to a real community, share them with a new world. Perhaps a choir…”

“Look, boys, I really am flattered, but I can’t honestly think of anything I’d enjoy less.” Magnolia takes one last drag of the smoke and stubs it out with a heel. “I’ve got a pretty sweet deal here. I’m very happy here, in fact. So I’m going to politely decline.” She places a lingering hand on DiMA’s shoulder, but Hancock can tell by the set of her shoulders that her heart’s not in it, and she disappears upstairs before last orders are called.

It only occurs to Hancock that none of them have eaten since last night when his stomach lets out a harsh growl unbidden. He still can’t really remember the last time he was properly hungry, and the Jet’s been staving it off for most of the day, but Danse must be starving…

Only he doesn’t comment on Hancock’s gurgling belly. In fact, when Hancock goes behind the bar to retrieve a box of Snack Cakes, he barely spares the battered box a second glance, and he shakes his head when he offers him a cake.

“I’m not hungry,” is all he’ll say on the matter.

DiMA and Faraday are all too content to make off to the Rexford for another non-sleepover, and Hancock leads his lovers up the State House stairs with exhaustion dragging his feet. It’s been a long day - and for all he begs mayoral duties, he’s never had to hold his tongue quite this long before in the name of diplomacy. They fall into bed together and he can barely muster the energy to turn out the lamp before his eyes are shutting of their own accord.

* * *

Sunday brings more of the same. Hancock is only consoled by the fact that before dusk the two synths will be getting back on the boat and shipping the hell out of here, taking their oversized suitcase and their loud opinions with them.

But the day isn’t off to a great start. Danse is grumpy and bleary-eyed, stumbling into furniture and grunting in pain when he stubs his toe against the bed frame. Nick is also grumpy, but in him it comes out in that awful tension writ across his brow and shoulders, and Hancock can’t do a damn thing to take it away.

Bunker Hill is the last stop - they all climb the monument for the views across Boston, and Faraday pops off to find a souvenir from the traders at the market. Hancock wonders why the hell he’d want something to remember this trip by.

“You’ll have to visit us again soon, Nick,” DiMA says at the dock. The hike to the river, where the Nakanos have arranged to pick him up, felt like it lasted an age. “There’s always a place for you in Acadia. You too, Danse.”

“Appreciate it,” Nick says. “But I don’t go anywhere Hancock can’t follow.”

“Of course, you’d be welcome too, Mayor,” DiMA adds, hastily. “It goes without saying.”

“I bet.” Hancock grins in that way he knows shows too many teeth. “Safe journey now, brother.”

“Yes,” DiMA echoes. “Thank you for having us. Your hospitality has been very kind.”

“It’s been fun,” Faraday lies.

“Uh huh,” Nick says. “Well, all good things must come to an end, huh? I’m sure we’ll write, in future.” DiMA steps forward to clasp their hands again before climbing aboard. With a wave for Kenji, Nick’s the first to tow them away from the docks and round the side of a building, heaving a sigh of relief when they’re out of sight.

“That was worse than I thought,” he confides. “Thank Christ it’s over.”

“Maybe the whole family thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Hancock says, slipping his warm hands under Nick’s coat to rub his shoulders again. “Figure I must be forgettin’ how bad things were with my own brother.”

They all slope back to Goodneighbor, eventually, when they’re certain the boat has disappeared from the horizon. It’s raining lazily, spitting really, but they’re all soaked through by the time they emerge into the relative warmth of the Old State House.

The three of them cuddle together on the couch once they’ve peeled off wet socks and shoes, shared a ragged towel between them for the bits they can reach. Fahrenheit enters after a while, puttering around brewing a few chems for a business venture she’s struck up with Fred at the Rexford and shaking the curtains to get the _smell of wet ghoul_ out of the room. Hancock tips his head back on the cushions and grins at her upside-down.

“Love you too, Fahr.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It’s comfortable again, finally, Hancock’s feet in Danse’s lap and Nick's arm drawn around both of them. Danse drags out an old book of Hancock’s, some history tome he found in a case somewhere and never finished, and reads until his stomach growls loud enough to make John jump.

“You two hungry?” Nick asks. “Don’t mind heading out for dinner, if you’re up for it. Wash some of this weekend away with something strong and no-one there to judge us.”

“I could eat,” Hancock says, at the same time as Danse replies, “I’m fine, thank you.”

The pieces fall together a second later. Danse stumbling around that morning, sleep deprived and moody. His refusal to eat the proffered Snack Cakes last night, how he hadn’t mentioned their lack of mealtimes the day before. Faraday, saying _it was just my programming_.

“Danse,” Nick says for him.

“Hmm?” Danse studiously doesn’t look up from his page. “You two go, if you like. I’ll get some more reading done.”

“You know it’s bullshit,” Hancock says. “Please tell me you don’t believe the crap they were spouting, Danse, _please_.”

He’s expecting bluster. Expecting Danse to say _I have no idea what you’re talking about_ , that he’s _just not that hungry_ , that he _just didn’t manage much sleep last night_. But they’ve come a long way, apparently, because Danse just sighs and admits, very quietly, “He said it was the best thing about being a synth.”

“You can’t _starve_ yourself just because some guy on his high horse says it’s what you should do,” Hancock tells him.

“It’s just…” Danse lets the book fall shut with a muted thump, and a plume of dust erupts from between the old pages. “I’ve spent so long hating what I am. What I didn’t even know I was. And I see the synths at the Railroad who are so comfortable in their own skin, and Magnolia and Sturges and you, Nick, and I feel… I feel like I’m missing something. Like there must be some divine answer to it all, even though I know… I know that things don’t work like that. So the chance to find answers, to find out what my body can do now it’s… now that I know what it _is_ -“

“I get that,” Nick tells him. “I do. When I first woke up in this body I really freaked out, but now it’s taken so many scuffs and dings and it’s all still going, so… I guess I’m grateful for that. But, Danse, you have all that and more. Your body’s real enough that you didn’t know you weren’t human until someone told you. You get all the damage resistance with none of the pesky business of emptyin’ a stomach unit, and whatever DiMA says about chems - I’ve seen you and John blissed out on Jet too many times to count.”

Danse sighs. Looks between them both, Hancock cross-legged, Nick laid back and holding a still-smoking cigarette. Hancock twines their hands without thinking about it.

“You don’t need to hurt yourself to prove anything,” he says, gently as he can. “Not ever, and not for anyone. You want to go make a life for yourself in Acadia - Nick and I will support you, of course we will. But I sure as hell won’t sit here and watch you starve yourself and deny yourself sleep and listen to whatever that spiky bastard comes out with.”

Danse chokes a laugh at that, shaking his head at Hancock, who is now playing with their joined hands, watching the strips of sunlight fall on their skin - his gnarled and brown, Danse’s pale and strong and just a little hairy.

“I don’t want to live in Acadia,” Danse murmurs after a moment. “I meant what I said. I’m happy here, with you two. I just… it got to me, I suppose. It won’t, again.”

Hancock isn’t so sure, but they troop down to the Third Rail for brahmin steaks and Danse clears his plate, and there’s terrible dancing and laughter and kisses, pressed to noses and ears and jaws and anywhere they can reach. And when they fall into Hancock’s bed together that night, he stays awake just to watch Danse fall asleep before him, brushing back the stubborn lock of hair that always falls over one eye with gentle fingers while Nick looks on.

* * *

Danse sleeps in the next morning, only rising when Hancock escapes to pee and make coffee. He’s propped against the headboard when he returns to distribute the steaming mugs, reading an old dime novel he has stashed on the bedside.

“Sleep okay?”

“Affirmative,” Danse replies. One of his arms moves to settle around Hancock’s shoulders. He yawns when Hancock reaches up to stretch, narrowly avoiding sloshing hot liquid over the three of them.

“Whatcha reading?”

“It’s a detective novel,” Danse says, and if Hancock isn’t mistaken - or blind - there’s something that looks suspiciously like a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Nick lent it to me. The main character is solving a case at an old hotel that’s cut off by a storm. The other guests think ghosts are responsible for the strange incidents that keep occurring.”

“Read to me?”

Danse grumbles, as he knew he would, but acquiesces.

“…and the stairway itself seemed to tremble with some unseen force, shaking the banisters, curling the threadbare carpet. Harrison traversed them regardless, his steps sure, mind surer. This was no malevolent spirit, no poltergeist. Nothing but people went bump in the night in this old place…”

Hancock lets Danse read, appreciating how his tongue curls prettily around the words, a bedtime story out of time. He lets himself be lulled, slipping deeper into the pillows and a little closer to Nick, who’s similarly rapt.

He almost misses it, so far into slumber that the words, spoken close to his skin, are barely audible.

“This is the best thing about being a synth,” Danse whispers. “This right here.”


	4. soulmate au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You ain’t makin’ sense, tin can,” Hancock says cheerily, as though watching Danse go over the edge brings him nothing but unadulterated glee. “You wanna rehearse your lines, go again later?”_
> 
> _“How the hell are you still functioning?!” Danse cries, unable to hold it back a second longer. “How can you sit there and joke and pop Mentats like nothing’s wrong? Like your Mark isn’t on fire?”_
> 
> _“My what?” Hancock’s face screws up in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”_
> 
> _“Your_ Mark _,” Danse reiterates._
> 
> Turns out Hancock had more than one soulmate all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried while writing this.
> 
> I've never written a soulmate au before but this one just... spoke to me.
> 
> As ever, prompt me in the comments or on tumblr (what-on-io) :)

Danse is in a vertibird hovering ten thousand feet above Boston when it happens.

They’re just about to begin the descent into Cambridge; he’s been manning the minigun for the last half hour while Rhys is at the yoke. Haylen, behind him, is fighting the wind to sift through reams of technical data, grunting as she tries to keep the pages arranged.

The burning in the side of his neck is so intense Danse loses his grip on the gun. A searing pain, hot as the time he stepped into power armour that had been baking too long in the sun. It’s gone almost as suddenly as it came, and he brings one trembling, sweaty hand to cup over the wound.

Only there is no wound. No blood, either, when he pulls his hand back to look. Can’t have been a bullet, then, fired from someone skilled or stupid enough to fire on a rapidly approaching target. Besides, he would’ve heard the shot.

Then what? The pain’s gone like it was never there.

“Paladin Danse?” Haylen asks, sounding far away. He cranes his neck to look at her.

“Yes, Scribe?”

“You’ve, um. You’ve got a, uh…”

“Please, Haylen, we don’t have all day,” he snaps without meaning to. She flushes.

“Your Mark.”

Danse freezes, feeling his muscles seize up without his consent. “I…”

“Let me take over,” Haylen offers, but he waves her away.

“It’s fine,” he tells her firmly. “I’ll look when we’re established on the ground. The mission comes first.”

And it does. He forces himself to concentrate on the cause. Elder Maxson has assigned his team to establish the Cambridge outpost for a reason: they’re an effective recon unit. Knight Rhys is endlessly dedicated to the Brotherhood, and Haylen is one of the most talented scribes on the Prydwen. They’ll get this done.

And they do, eventually, even though it takes a stranger in a Vault suit and several hours to clear out the ferals. Once introductions are over and the stranger - Nora, or so she says - has agreed to help with some additional reconnaissance, Danse has almost forgotten about his Mark entirely. It’s only when he sits down with Rhys in a back room of the old police station that he remembers the pain, the breathless note to Haylen’s voice, and he excuses himself to go in search of a mirror.

The bathroom suffices. Danse twists his head to the side in the cracked glass, brushing his hair aside where it’s gotten too long, curling at the nape of his neck.

What he sees steals his breath.

He’s seen Marks before, of course. Cutler had his, back in D.C., a small black X, there from birth, which denoted he’d die without meeting his soulmate. And die he had, by Danse’s own hand, something that haunts him during his every waking moment. He used to make light of it, say it gave him free rein to fraternise with as many _hot armoured chicks_ as he wanted, but there was always a note of sadness lingering there, one Danse was too polite to point out.

But he’s never met anyone with two Marks before.

They’re both small, dark. They could easily be mistaken for conventional tattoos, if anyone would believe Danse to be the type of man to get one. One is heart-shaped, with an arrow poked through the cartoonish centre; the other is longer, a rectangle with a jutted corner, like a pipe.

He has no idea what any of it means, unless his soulmate particularly enjoys beating people to death with lead piping or stabbing them through the chest.

“Danse? You okay in there?” It’s Haylen, rapping gently at the door.

“Affirmative,” he responds immediately. “I’ll be right out.”

“No rush,” she says. “Is it, um… Do you know who it might be?”

How could he? Soulmarks only appear when you get within a five mile radius of your soulmate for the first time. He’s never even been to Boston before. It could be anyone in the damn city.

“No idea,” he admits, tugging his collar up to cover the Mark and opening the door a crack. “No matter. There are more important things to focus on right now. The ArcJet mission is just the start.”

* * *

It takes him all of two minutes from standing at the gates of Goodneighbor to realise he’s royally fucked.

His neck had itched the whole way through relaying their new orders to Rhys and Haylen. He’d ignored it while he distributed their weapons, rationed out ammo, instructed them upon meeting with the rest of the platoon that they were under no circumstances to offer violence against these new Commonwealth freaks unless the freaks offered it first. The Marks started burning as soon as they trooped under an old overpass, and by the time he’s standing outside the neon-strung gates it feels like a thousand tiny fire ants are marching along his skin.

It takes one look at the self-proclaimed mayor of the town - the fucking _ghoul_ mayor, puffing on a bright red canister of chems exactly matching the one branded into his neck - for Danse to realise that the universe is playing a cruel trick on him. If he believed in fate or god or the goddamn power of the Atom, he’d take the time to examine that. At most, he thinks, it’s divine retribution for Cutler.

He tries to tell himself it isn’t true. That it could be anyone in this squalid little settlement, a human, hopefully, maybe inside somewhere, waiting for him to sweep them off their feet and away from this cesspool. A damsel in distress, here only by terrible circumstance, yearning for a better life of order and fraternity in the Brotherhood.

But then they’re through the gates, allowed in by the ghoul’s reluctant political manoeuvre, and Rhys is heading off in search of a shower and Haylen to sleep off the past few days, and it’s Danse’s responsibility as squadron leader to make both introductions and initial demands. When he strides over to the mayor - Hancock, one of the other freaks said - the Mark on his neck hurts so intensely he has to reach up to press a hand over it, teeth gritted.

The ghoul, for his part, doesn’t react. Just stands there, cocky as anything, with a smirk Danse wants to punch off his face. His grip is loose on his shotgun, ridiculous tricorn hat at an angle on his head, unbothered by both his marred skin and the fact that he’s apparently donned the historical garments of an American great.

“Ghoul,” Danse barks, going for authoritative. His voice still wavers on the word, but he soldiers on. “I’m Paladin Danse, of the Brotherhood of Steel. We’re here to requisition-“

“You ain’t here to do shit,” Hancock says. The smirk is quirking the corner of his mouth up higher now, and Danse wants to… “This is my town. We’re of the people, for the people here, and you metal assholes are an inch away from ending up with bulletholes in that armour of yours. A word against my town or my people and you’ll be answering to me, get it? I _eagerly_ anticipate your first move, dickwad.”

Danse isn’t quite sure what to say. “This town is a blight on the entire Commonwealth,” is what emerges, but his voice sounds miles away. The pulsing pain in his neck is growing, an unbearable sub-dermal itch he can’t reach. “If you truly wanted the best for humanity, you’d…”

He trails off. Hancock waits, face scrunched in a way that suggests he’d be raising an eyebrow, if he had any to raise. “I’d what? Let you put a bullet in me and every other ghoul on the planet?”

“I…” Danse digs his nails into his neck, trying to scrape out the agony. Atom, how is the ghoul not affected? There’s no tight lines of pain in his face. His dark eyes are clear, observant, but not scrunched to disguise hidden torment. His posture’s loose, open.

Maybe this isn’t his soulmate at all. He casts his gaze around, looking for anyone closer in the vicinity, but there’s only an Assaultron - manning a gun store, for some godforsaken reason, as though the Commonwealth isn’t dangerous enough - and another ghoul, female, further away, and Danse has never been that way inclined.

“Something up, soldier?” Hancock’s voice breaks into his thoughts, and Danse shakes his head to clear it. It doesn’t work. The fire ants strike up a merry dance down that radiates down to his left shoulder and up to his jaw.

“No. Nothing.” He clears his throat. “If you don’t mind, I was intending to rent a room while we’re here. I’ll return to discuss arrangements at a later date.” He’d been meaning to say more - to say, _give your town up or else_ , to say _if you’re of the people you’ll do right by them_ , but it seems like too much effort to grit the words out and he’s suddenly tired, so tired, and in pain, and for some inexplicable reason wants to _touch_ the ghoul to see what his ridged skin would feel against his fingertips.

The pain eases, just a little, as he trudges over to the hotel across the square. Not much, just enough to provide a little respite, for his head to clear a little. Enough for him to fork out caps to the woman on the desk and climb the stairs to find his room, and to collapse face down on the filthy bedsheets. There’s a vile smell emanating from somewhere by the en-suite, as though something’s been left to rot in there - hell, it probably has - but he can’t find the energy to investigate.

He needs a battle plan. They’ll be here for the next few weeks at least, if the ghoul doesn’t intend to go down without a fight. At least until the Prydwen arrives. He’s going to have to fight through the pain, or wrangle an assignment somewhere else, or…

Or touch the ghoul.

That’s what needs to happen, for the soul bond to finalise. It’s a way of confirmation, he supposes, to ensure you’ve got the right person. The pain disappears, and the Mark fades to a shadow, and you’re permitted to get on with the falling in love part.

Supposedly.

Usually, he’s heard that soulmates both crave the physical contact so strongly they can’t keep their hands off each other in as little as the first few seconds of meeting. Pain or not, the desire usually outweighs it. But Hancock hadn’t looked at all tempted to reach out, or distracted in the slightest. He’d looked… pissed off, and a little bored.

Danse wonders what would have happened if he’d done it, if he’d reached out to stroke along his cheek or brush their hands together or grabbed the ghoul by the shoulders and slammed him up against the nearest wall. He’d be ostracised, of course, by his fellow soldiers. Cast out of the Brotherhood, of his _family_ , for good. Probably left to live out the rest of his days - few as they may be - in the squalor of Goodneighbor.

It doesn’t bear contemplating. It’s insanity just thinking of it. Shame blooms then, deeper than the pain in his neck, and Danse grits his teeth and resolves to get through the next weeks or months as smoothly as possible, no ghoul touching involved.

* * *

Of course, the universe has other plans.

Danse has been hiding out at the Hotel Rexford for three days when orders from Elder Maxson make it down the command chain that he’s to renegotiate with Hancock. Offer to rehome the human residents and allow the others to live. He wishes he weren’t the most senior member here, that he could delegate the task to Rhys or Gavil, but that’s out of the question. He’d be seen as weak. He’s a paladin, for Atom’s sake.

So he gathers himself. Straps himself into his power armour as though it might offer any sort of tangible protection against fate, and climbs the rickety spiral stairs to Hancock’s rooms.

The ghoul is hanging upside-down off a battered couch in the centre of the room when he enters, knocking softly on the open door to announce his presence. Hancock doesn’t move anything except his head, which turns to see who it is. Hatless, it’s even more obvious what he is, the radiation having left him hairless and shrivelled.

Danse’s heart beats a little faster in his chest.

“Ghoul,” he manages. His neck prickles.

“Tin soldier,” Hancock greets. Without looking, he plucks a tin of pills off the coffee table and pops a handful into his mouth, chews and swallows them upside-down. Danse watches his throat work.

“I’ve…” Danse begins, transfixed.

“You’ve what?” Hancock prompts after a moment or two. Danse feels suddenly faint, and is overwhelmingly grateful for the suit keeping him upright.

“I…” He trails off again. “I, uh…”

“Danse?” It’s the first time Hancock’s said his name, and it sends a thrill down his spine. It sounds good, coming from him, rasped out on that irradiated tongue, and Danse wants to fucking kiss him. “You ain’t gonna throw up on my rug, are ya?”

“I don’t…”

Hancock actually looks _worried,_ for some reason, and shifts so he can look at him right way up. Slowly, like he’s summoning a rabid dog, he pats the cushion next to him. “Come sit, before you pass out.”

Can he really get that close to the ghoul and resist touching him? Danse isn’t sure. Seems his body doesn’t much care what his brain thinks anymore, though, because his feet are moving of their own accord and suddenly he’s close - too close, inches away from the ghoul. He’s wearing gloves, thankfully, a fact he recognises dimly. The Mark needs skin-to-skin contact.

The pain is so intense now it steals the remaining breath from his lungs. Hissing, Danse brings his left hand up to cover the Mark again, which does nothing to stem the feeling.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” Hancock asks, frowning.

Danse lists his demands in his head. He needs the town for an outpost. There are strange energy signals coming from Cambridge. Goodneighbor has the capacity to host the equipment they need to investigate. He will rehome Hancock’s human citizens. He will not execute the rest. He wants to kiss Hancock more than he wants to live. He is burning up from the inside.

“Nothing,” he says.

“You been shot, or somethin’? Only the way you keep rubbin’ your neck looks like you’re hurting.”

“Not shot,” Danse tells him. “Nothing. I'm fine. There’s nothing…”

“Only, is that…” Hancock’s getting closer now, his face an inch away from Danse’s neck, his hot breaths coming against the burning skin there. “That your Mark? A new one, huh?”

He doesn’t know. Danse’s heart quits its desperate rhythm. It could be anyone in Goodneighbor. It could be _anyone_.

“None of your business,” Danse hisses.

“Just tryin’ to help, tin can,” Hancock says, and smirks again. Danse hates him, so intensely it could be mistaken for another emotion, something hotter and messier and altogether repulsive. “Always thought I made a pretty good matchmaker, myself. Got Daisy set up with her soulmate last year. Ham, who guards the bar. Pair of opposites, the two of ‘em, weirdest couple you’ve ever met, but he took her to an old bookstore he found fully stocked, so-“

“I don’t care about your town or your people, ghoul,” Danse interrupts, and wishes it were true. “I don’t need your help, or your charity, or whatever the fuck this is.”

Hancock doesn’t say anything, just sits back on his haunches and peers contemplatively at Danse.

“I came here to extend a compromise. You hand over the people, and we let you keep the town- No. No, I… We want the town. We want the equipment. I…”

Christ, his _head._ His _neck_. His entire _body_ is yearning, breaking, shattering into a thousand pieces for this inhuman specimen sitting before him. It’s repulsive, it’s wrong, it’s against nature. Cade would have a fit. Maxson would have a _coronary_.

“You ain’t makin’ sense, tin can,” Hancock says cheerily, as though watching Danse go over the edge brings him nothing but unadulterated glee. “You wanna rehearse your lines, go again later?”

“How the hell are you still functioning?!” Danse cries, unable to hold it back a second longer. “How can you sit there and _joke_ and pop Mentats like nothing’s wrong? Like your Mark isn’t on _fire_?”

“My what?” Hancock’s face screws up in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your _Mark_ ,” Danse reiterates.

“I ain’t got a…” Hancock freezes, squints again at Danse’s Mark. “Oh, fuck no. We ain’t… this isn’t…”

“This one is a fucking Jet canister,” Danse hisses. “What else can it be? My neck has been in agony since I arrived here. There’s no-one around but you and me. And trust me, ghoul, I would give anything I have for this to be some sort of falsification, I really would, but I can’t go on like this much longer-“

“I got my Mark when I was eighteen, in Diamond City,” Hancock says. “I already found my soulmate.”

“What?” Danse echoes, blood freezing to ice in his veins. But he had been so _sure._ “Let me see.”

“Nothing to see,” he quips. “Disappeared with my last layer of skin when I turned ghoul. But I’d already found Nick by then - known him since I was a teenager, really, but ‘course the Mark doesn’t show ’til you’re old enough, so-“

“Who’s Nick?” Danse asks. He can’t be wrong, not with his skin so hot it feels like it might spontaneously burst into flames.

“Nick Valentine. Detective. Lives in Diamond City.”

“I…”

“I think you got the wrong guy,” Hancock tells him, slowly. “Lucky for you. Wouldn’t wanna wake up next to this face every day, huh?”

The very idea of it makes something in Danse’s stomach clench, hard.

“Look, you got plenty of options, right? Fahrenheit’s right downstairs, and she’s human as anything. Pretty, too, so-“

“I’m gay,” Danse says in a rush. “So I think we can exclude the women.”

“Ok-a-a-a-y,” Hancock says, drawing out the word. “Someone in the Watch, then, maybe? I got guards on every door. Or MacCready, he’s holed up in the Third Rail-“

“I haven’t spared anyone but you a second glance,” Danse insists. “As much as I wish that weren’t true. I burn hotter when I’m close to you. I want to touch you so badly I can’t _bear_ it. Do you honestly not feel anything?”

“I…” Hancock pauses, and Danse knows he has him. “You’re a pretty guy. I like pretty guys. Just like ‘em a lot less when they’re threatening to take over my town and calling my friends _freaks_.”

“There’s an easy way to settle this,” Danse says, more rationally than he would have believed himself capable of in the present moment. “Either I can go prodding every member of your Neighborhood Watch and groping the revellers in your bar downstairs, or I can touch _you_. Call it process of elimination.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Hancock frowns. Danse wants to kiss the spot between his brows, to ease out the furrows there. Instead, he peels off his gloves one by one, slowly as he can manage, and clenches his hands into fists to keep from touching Hancock without his express permission.

“Fine, then. Have at it,” he allows after a minute’s thought.

Danse breathes out. Is he really going to do this? Potentially cement a soul bond with an abomination? Cast himself out of the only family he’s ever known?

 _Affirmative_ , his mind supplies for him.

He looks at Hancock’s hands, clasped loosely in his lap. Thinks of how best to touch them, when the ghoul opens his palm and places it face-up on Danse’s clothed knee. An invitation.

Danse takes it. Slides his fingers in the spaces between Hancock’s, and the pain in his neck intensifies for a terrible second and then dissipates entirely.

Hancock’s breath leaves him in a rush, and Danse knows he feels it too.

“Holy shit.”

For a second Danse isn’t sure which one of them has spoken. When he raises his gaze to meet the ghoul’s, Hancock is wide-eyed, jaw agape, staring at Danse like the answers to all the universe’s questions have come to him at once.

“Your Mark…” Hancock breathes.

“What about it?”

“It’s, uh, half faded.”

Danse had thought it was supposed to fade all at once, but okay. “That’s what’s supposed to happen,” he supplies.

“No, I mean… the Jet, if that’s what it is, is all greyed out. But, uh, the heart… holy fucking shit.”

“What?”

“You ain’t gonna like this. But, uh, don’t suppose you feel any better about synths than you do ghouls?”

* * *

Two hours later, they’re standing under the blinking neon sign of Valentine’s Detective Agency, and the heart makes sense, and so does the filthy Gen-2 synth standing in the doorway smoking, with a gaping hole of silicone missing from the left side of its neck.

The universe really does hate him. It’s been conspiring against him since the day Cutler died, and now here he is, his neck burning once more, about to be saddled for life to a ghoul and a synth.

“Wasn’t expecting you today, John,” Valentine says, stubbing the cigarette out against the wall and flicking it onto the ground. “You make a new friend?”

“Hardly,” Hancock scoffs, though there’s a strange softness behind the sound. “This is Danse. He’s Brotherhood. He’s also, apparently, our soulmate.”

Nick blinks eerie amber eyes at the two of them. Danse imagines what it would be like to wake up with those eyes casting a soft glow over him, and tucks his thumbs inside his fists, squeezing tight.

“Huh,” Valentine says. “Guess you’d better come in, then.”

They do. Inside, the agency’s small, cluttered with case files and filing cabinets and spare ties, cast over furniture like ivy. Danse watches as Hancock throws himself into a swivel chair by the desk, hovering awkwardly near the door.

“Might as well make yourself at home,” the synth says, taking off his hat and coat and tossing them in the direction of a battered sofa in the corner. Danse eases himself into a chair next to Hancock, his closeness reassuring.

“So how did this happen?” Valentine asks, as though he’s interrogating them about the details of some mystery they’ve asked him to unravel. Danse stays silent while Hancock tells the story, hand cupped over his Mark, trying to massage out the agony once more. He watches Nick, who’s observant, keen, leaning over a little to get the details. He smiles a little when Hancock gets to the part about Danse going on a groping tour of Goodneighbor, and Danse is struck by how attractive he looks, actually, with the dim light of the agency casting the sharp angles of his nose and brow in shadow, his friendly face open and trusting. The detective getup suits him, Danse thinks - he looks like he’s stepped right out of a film noir.

“I see,” Nick says, when he’s done. “Well, looks like there’s only one thing for it.” And without fanfare, he extends a hand across the desk - the one still covered in silicone, Danse notes - to take Danse’s. His visible shiver says everything they don’t need words for, and the last of Danse’s pain fizzles away.

“Never thought I’d be doing this a second time, doll,” Nick chuckles warmly, his friendly amber gaze all for Danse. “Good to finally meet you, though I can’t imagine someone like you is thrilled about your new paramours. ‘Course, now you’ve met us and your neck ain’t bothering you anymore, you’re free to head back to your Brotherhood cronies and forget all about this.”

 _What_?

Danse doesn’t realise he’s voiced the thought until Nick and John frown at him simultaneously.

“You… I mean to say, that’s… of course, I’ll make myself scarce, if that’s what you want,” he babbles, already scraping the chair back to stand. He’ll head back to Goodneighbor, field promote Rhys and make his excuses to Haylen, and disappear for a few weeks until the Prydwen arrives. No way he can be around the ghoul after this abject humiliation. He wants to curl up under a rock and die.

“Whoa, whoa,” Valentine says, holding out a placating hand. “Now that ain’t what I said. I suppose we just assumed you wouldn’t want anything more to do with us, the position you’re in and all.”

“I understand,” Danse says hurriedly. “I never meant to intrude. I apologise.”

“Danse, you ain’t intruding,” Hancock says. “You’re our soulmate, we…” He glances at Nick, and some unspoken conversation takes place between them. “We’ll always want you with us.”

“Just didn’t think you’d want the same thing,” Nick explains.

“You’re my soulmates, too,” Danse says. “I’m not saying I ever expected this. I still feel like I’m dreaming. But I don’t want to just… turn away from this and pretend it never happened. I already feel like I know you, like I want to know everything about you both, like I need to touch you, and it’s…”

“Distracting,” Hancock says for him.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think the Brotherhood would be too pleased to find out who you’re shacking up with, doll,” Nick puts in.

“I don’t care,” Danse says, and somehow it’s fucking _true_. “I’ll leave. They won’t even have to exile me, I’ll leave of my own accord. I… I have a lot of learning to do, I know that, but I’m willing to be taught, if you’re willing to teach me. Though I know you shouldn’t have to.”

“Always said I’d be a tutor if I wasn’t a PI,” Nick laughs.

“I’m sorry I called you names, in my head or otherwise,” Danse tells them, then turns to Hancock: “I’m sorry I tried to take over your town.”

“Yeah, maybe you could move those other metal assholes on before you hand in your notice, huh?”

“I will. Of course I will. I’ll go right now, if you like.”

“Uh-uh,” Hancock says. “There was something I wanted to find out first, actually, if you’re both amenable.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you say _ad victoriam_ when you come?”

Danse stutters. Blinks. Processes. Says, “Do you want to find out?”

They do.


	5. comfort blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Didn’t think I’d ever catch you spooning,” Hancock says as soon as he’s released, with a laugh that makes Danse want to clamp the hand around his throat instead._
> 
> _“Don’t kid yourself, freak,” Danse tells him, though he’s aware the plausible deniability in this particular situation is precarious at best._
> 
> _“Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t waste any sentiment on an abomination, I know,” Hancock breathes. “Just fuck me harder, show me how much you really fucking hate me.”_
> 
> Hancock covers Danse up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one for you guys tonight!
> 
> This one was for an anon prompt on tumblr: "I remember, in your series, at one point Danse mentioned that he once fell asleep in Hancock's bed after a long and exhausting patrol, and woke up covered with a blanket. That sounds like a story well worth reading in full."
> 
> I kinda, maybe, a lil', turned it into a sickfic. Just a little.
> 
> I feel like this collection is gonna peter off a bit soon, as it reaches its natural conclusion. If inspiration strikes I'll probably update it at some point, but I have just a few more ideas and then I feel like I'm done. But as ever, I'll strive to answer any prompts I get so hmu :)

Danse isn’t sick. He’s _not_. And even if he is, it’s probably something he’s caught from this godforsaken town, so Hancock deserves everything he gets.

He doesn’t waste time feeling guilty. It’s just a fuck. It’s just a _cold_ , if it’s anything at all. The ghoul knows what Danse is risking each time he locks the door behind them and crowds Hancock’s smaller frame into the bed; it’s only fair he shoulders some of the risks, too. Besides, who knows what kind of awful diseases come in ghoul semen? It’s a wonder Danse hasn’t turned feral.

Hancock can handle catching a cold.

Danse lets himself into the ghoul’s quarters and closes the door behind him. Hancock’s not here - Danse saw him give a lazy and ultimately pointless speech that had nothing on Elder Maxson’s impassioned addresses, and then he’d disappeared into the old subway station he calls a bar to _do business_ with the Mr Handy behind the counter.

Danse has time to wait. He isn’t due back on patrol for another twelve hours, having just clocked off for the day. He’s bone weary, aching between his shoulder blades and down his thighs, glad to finally be out of his power armour.

He strides to the bed and collapses on top of the blankets before he can think better of it. The sheets are rumpled, and there are crumbs strewn about from some unknown dish he can’t imagine Hancock eating. The pillow smells like the ghoul, a fact Danse wishes he could scorch from his brain.

He closes his eyes, breathes it in. Hates himself while he does it.

“Made yourself comfortable, I see,” Hancock says. It could be seconds or minutes or hours later; Danse has lost all ability to tell. Groggily, he tries to raise his head off the pillow to look at the ghoul, in his ridiculous scarlet frock coat and hat, but the room spins.

“You’re late,” Danse grumbles, although they hadn’t agreed on a time. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Hancock says, but takes off his hat and places it on the table all the same. Danse hears his footsteps pad closer and the thump of his boots being tugged off and dumped aside.

Danse somehow musters enough energy to sweep his legs off the bed and sit up. It’s dusk, by now, the gas lamps outside casting a hazy orange glow into the room. Distantly, he can hear the calls of Hancock’s Neighborhood Watch as they change shift, the clanking of bottles from the bar below. It all feels miles away.

He's here now, though. He might as well.

He gets to his feet and begins unzipping his flight suit. The fastens are awkward to undo with sleepy fingers, but he still bats the ghoul’s hands away when he comes over to assist. Eventually he’s naked except for his underwear, chilly in the evening breeze.

By now Hancock knows the drill, and doesn’t need to be pinned to the bed to avoid baring his repulsive chest to the world. He lets Danse drag his pants down to his knees and settles against the mattress of his own accord, grunting while he gets himself comfortable.

Danse sneezes.

Sniffles.

Wipes at his nose with the back of a hand.

“You gettin’ sick, soldier?” Hancock asks, voice muffled by the bed.

“Negative,” Danse says, as strongly as he can manage. “Just a little run down. It’s been a difficult shift.”

They don’t do this, usually. Chit-chat. Usually Danse drags him to the nearest item of furniture and arranges his gangly limbs how he wants them, or else they fuck against the wall, and there are grunts and moans and the slap of flesh against flesh, but they don’t _talk_.

“Whatever ya say,” Hancock says. Danse knows he’s smirking without having to see it.

In retaliation, he barely pauses to slick himself before beginning the slow slide into the other man’s body. It’s tough going - hot and tight enough for him to get distracted by the insistent shivers of pleasure already working their way up his back - but he bottoms out, greeted with a groan of mingled pain and pleasure from Hancock. He attempts a stuttering thrust, and the motion almost exhausts him.

Moving his hips and legs is a lot of effort. It seems a lot less to tug himself up onto the bed to join Hancock, and to do this on their sides. It isn’t a position he’s ever tried before - too intimate, too cloying, too fucking romantic - but he isn’t sure how long his body can stay upright otherwise. Besides, this way he gets to rock all the way into the ghoul’s body, hitting his prostate on every thrust, and when Hancock gets too loud Danse brings an arm around to clamp a hand over his open mouth.

“Shut up,” he grits out. Hancock’s breath is hot and wet against his palm.

“Mmmh,” the ghoul says.

“I mean it. Someone will hear.”

His muffled words sound suspiciously like _I don’t care_.

Danse thrusts again, harder. The ghoul shivers and goes quiet, limp in Danse’s hold. Slowly, he eases his hand away from his face, arranges it around the ghoul’s bare thighs instead to drag him a little closer. It feels good, like this, close and warm and intense around his cock.

“Didn’t think I’d ever catch you spooning,” Hancock says as soon as he’s released, with a laugh that makes Danse want to clamp the hand around his throat instead.

“Don’t kid yourself, freak,” Danse tells him, though he’s aware the plausible deniability in this particular situation is precarious at best.

“Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t waste any sentiment on an abomination, I know,” Hancock breathes. “Just fuck me harder, show me how much you really fucking hate me.”

Danse obeys. Dimly, he’s aware of the ghoul fisting his own dick, rubbing against the sheets for friction, but he doesn’t bother to stop him. They’ll both be coming soon anyway, and then Danse is free to traipse back to his tent and collapse.

He comes first, with a quiet cry, hips snapping up into the press of Hancock’s body, that focal point of tight burning heat. Blames it on the post coital endorphins when he reaches around their still-joined bodies to help Hancock along, one rough calloused hand gripping his dick hard enough to make him hiss. He comes in waves, with a terrible keening sound, painting the sheets with it.

Hancock moves away first, unsticking their bodies with an audible sound. Danse, who is usually the first to tuck himself away and redress, can’t move, thoroughly fucked and exhausted from the day as he is. This means that, for the first time, he gets to experience Hancock cleaning his limp prick gently with a damp washcloth, dragging the old fabric carefully over his stomach and thighs, nearly fucking _reverent._

Danse closes his eyes, just for a minute. Just to rest. He’s so comfortable here, with the bed buoying him upwards, drifting towards somewhere soft and warm. He pretends he imagines the press of lips to his forehead, and finally he sleeps.

* * *

Of course, waking is a different matter entirely. His eyelids feel glued together, and his throat is scratchy and sore when he yawns. He feels terrible - his head is throbbing and his nose is stuffed - but he’s also strangely warm.

When he moves to sit up he finds himself - for lack of a better expression - _swaddled_ in a dark orange blanket. A thick one he’s never seen before, stuffed with some sort of down. He works the fabric between his index finger and thumb, wondering…

Hancock’s at his desk, ostensibly working, if working means chewing on Mentats and consulting a large, handwritten book. He glances up when Danse clears his throat, closes the book gently.

“Evenin’, sleeping beauty,” the ghoul greets. Danse talks himself down from returning a much less favourable endearment which will no doubt result in a petty slinging match by the skin of his teeth.

It’s easier, somehow, when he remembers the blanket, the one he certainly lacked the energy to tug over himself.

Wordlessly, Danse untangles himself, slips off the bed and plucks his impossibly folded garments up off the chair, straps himself back into the flight suit without sparing the ghoul a second look. Dressed, he scours round for his boots and finds them inexplicably lined up by the wall - another thing he definitely didn’t have the energy for.

He crosses the room and yanks the door open without saying a word, escaping out onto the landing after checking the coast is clear. Not that anyone would dare comment if they saw him leaving - he has excuses at the ready, brimming up. He’s in talks with the mayor about the Brotherhood’s future in Goodneighbor. He has a personal score to settle with the freak. He’s here as a representative for Elder Maxson, after all.

That kind of thing bears weight.


End file.
